


Light Me Up (I'll set you on fire)

by cave_leporem



Category: Motorcycling RPF
Genre: It's a potential thing, It's not a destiny thing, M/M, Mature Situations, Right actual tags, and then have the choice whether to make anything of it, drama and (attempted) humour, how can I explain this?, major crash warning (rider mostly uninjured), minor language, no angst (what is this?), sort-of soul bonding, the best potential partners bond
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-08
Updated: 2014-08-08
Packaged: 2018-02-12 06:42:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,293
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2099475
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cave_leporem/pseuds/cave_leporem
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“It’s not that there’s only one person for everybody- more like, in that moment in time, this person is the best, the only fit for you. That’s why intent’s so important; you have to want to be with that person at that point in time. Then you will touch."</p>
<p>He knows he doesn’t want to risk it. It’s a choice, after all. It’s intent and choosing to try, to fall in love and to stay in love. <br/>He wants no part of it, he insists. It shouldn’t be an issue.</p>
<p>(The gloves come out because even as he tells himself he wants no part of it, he doesn’t trust himself not to subconsciously reach out- not intentional, never intentional- but the confusion he feels leaves just enough room for interpretation.</p>
<p>So the gloves come out, and go on, never mind that it’s nearly as frowned upon for adults to wear them outside of professional requirements as it is illegal for children not to.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Light Me Up (I'll set you on fire)

**Author's Note:**

> You know you have issues when your bunnies procreate and sire bunnies of their own. So a couple of weeks ago, I posted a bonding prompt on motorskink because despite loving the idea, I couldn't get it to coherently work on paper.
> 
> Then this happened. Ye Gods. I hope it's coherent enough.
> 
> The crash is similar to Marc's actual crash at Sachsenring, in terms of type and seriousness: ie it was a serious crash, but with the luck of the devil, one he wasn't seriously hurt by. I'm not trying to downplay highsides or the injuries these guys and any motorcyclist can incur.
> 
> This is a work of fiction: no offence is intended to any of the people involved.
> 
> Enjoi.

Dani’s known (has been told) his whole life that it (that the _touch_ ) is a matter of intent. Stories from his Nan when he was younger- “I hated every young man my parents made me check, of _course_ nothing was going to come from it,”- lessons in school- “It’s not that there’s only one person for everybody- more like, in that moment in time, this person is the best, the only fit for you. That’s why intent’s so important; you have to _want_ to be with that person at that point in time. Then you will _touch_. And you will spend the rest of your lives working together to make sure that your partner never _touches_ anyone else.”

(There was a rumour that his second year teacher had been left by her partner not six months before this particular lesson. With hindsight and maturity, he gets her point- you work together to want to stay together, a conscious choice to remain in love with each other- but to his seven-years self, it sounded like a threat of control.)

All children are given gloves- and when around anybody but family, it is a punishable offense to remove them. Obviously, children cannot be punished fittingly for the crime at such a young age, so every child has it impressed on them that if they take off their gloves in public, _bad things_ will happen to their older family members. It is not the perfect system- nobody is that naïve- but it works. It protects minors from everything but the worst monsters who would take the gloves from the children, and then the victims are so scared that a bond can rarely form anyway.

Like everything else in society, gloves are a fashion statement. When Dani was a teenager, it was popular to have gloves matched to skin tone, so that at a glance one wasn’t sure if the gloves were being worn or not. It was daring, rebellious, and gave adults on the street conniption fits that could only be answered with sly grins.

(Dani is the same size now that he was when he was fourteen years old. A little broader in the shoulders, maybe, but the gloves still fit his hands.)

For once in his life, Dani is _thankful_ for fashion. When you’ve been warned all your life that intent is the most dangerous threat to your independence, you work out pretty quickly how to keep on top of your intentions. Dani knows himself extremely well, he likes to think.

Certainly, he knows enough that he’s unsure as to how the psi-component of the _touch_ would react to his emotions concerning this… person.

He knows he doesn’t want to risk it. It’s a choice, after all. It’s intent and choosing to try, to fall in love and to stay in love.

He wants no part of it, he insists. It shouldn’t be an issue.

(The gloves come out because even as he tells himself he wants no part of it, he doesn’t trust himself not to subconsciously reach out- not intentional, never intentional- but the confusion he feels leaves just enough room for interpretation.

So the gloves come out, and go on, never mind that it’s nearly as frowned upon for adults to wear them outside of professional requirements as it is illegal for children not to.)

Dani is grateful for fashion, because although his team know- he has to switch before sessions and races- nobody else looks sideways. An adult with flesh coloured hands- and there is nothing else they think they need to see.

What there _is_ , what he has- there’s a tiny, human voice inside of him that’s always noticed this person, but was kept in check by the fact that he was such a bastard. Now they’re friends of a sort (he’s still a bit of a bastard, tell truth, but it’s funny now)… it’s too much of a risk. Because Dani is human. He might want somebody permanent to hold at night. He might want to be held in return, when he’s feeling sad.

(Deep, _deep_ down, he might even want somebody to love, and to love him in return. But that can’t be this man. That _won’t_ be this man.)

There’s a larger part to his mind: a logical, unfeeling part that’s never given up on that MotoGP World Championship, and it refuses _categorically_ to risk a _touch_ with Jorge Lorenzo.

So the gloves go on, and will stay on until any and all curiosity (would a _touch_ take? _Could_ it take- could _he_ -?) is completely gone.

-*-

"Holy _shit_!"

Jorge swerves as he comes through the Sachsen Kurve, and it is by the grace of God alone that he misses the tail end of Dani's highside crash. As it is, he escapes onto the run off tarmac and rolls to a stop, turning to take in the debris.

Red flags are already waving, bringing a halt to the practice session. There are bits of Honda decorating the track in a macabre trail that leads into the gravel pit where the bike pitched to a stop next to a small, unmoving figure.

Dani isn't moving. He doesn't look trapped under the bike, but he isn't shaking out extremities or tilting his head around.

He just... He isn't moving.

Jorge's mind stalls, much like his Yamaha as he drops the clutch and lays it on its side. He sprints over the tarmac to the fallen figure, beating even the stewards, who have a longer trek to make and uphill, at that.

Even shocked, Jorge isn't an idiot; he knows to move Dani as little as possible and to not even think about touching his neck and helmet. What he _does_ do is gently take Dani's right hand, and after feeling for obvious breaks, remove their gloves to get at the Honda rider's wrist.

He checks, holds his breath. There is a pulse, and Jorge lets out his biggest worry in one long sigh, air hissed out between clenched teeth. He grabs Dani's hand, more for his own reassurance because he's seen crashes like this before, _had_ them before, but it’s serious, being knocked unconscious by the impact and where the hell are the stewards?!

As he's looking around, he feels something simultaneously _click_ in his mind and punch him in the gut. He gasps back in all the air he just let out because he thinks he knows what this must be.

He looks down at the Honda rider incredulously because this can't be the first time their hands have touched, surely?

With perfect timing (except he can't really justify the sarcasm because Holy shit Dani is still unconscious, even if he is breathing and they need to be there as soon as humanly possible and quicker besides) the stewards arrive and then his hand is taken out of Dani's and the track-side medic is doing a preliminary scan and Jorge is being herded away before he hears the verdict-

He makes sure he hears the 'okay to move' diagnosis before he lets the steward lead him back to his abandoned Yamaha-

-and shit, Ramon is going to _murder_ him for leaving it there like that, but they must be able to see why he did it; Dani was limp, unmoving (but still breathing, Jorge remembers, he was still breathing), his body is now being lifted onto a stretcher to be taken to the nearest medical facility-

_-_ Dani who he has just _touched_ , the swooping sensation in his gut reminds him.

Dani who Jorge might have had a second look at a few years ago, in the sense of _he's pretty fit, just my type_ but took it no further when they shook hands begrudgingly after some race or another and nothing came of it.

_Was he wearing_ _gloves_? Jorge wonders suddenly, _he must have been_ and why didn't he realise this before? Or is it the years that make the difference? Maybe they just weren’t right for each other then, but now they are?

Dani is still just Jorge's type, Dani who he's just _touched_ and who is being stretchered off the track unconscious after a massive highside crash.

Jorge sees the black spots dance across his vision where it isn’t too _bright_ , too _loud_ to take in and realises what's going to happen moments before he faints in front of a worried steward.

- _Dani_ is the last thought in his mind before everything goes black.

-*-                                           

Dani doesn't remember falling asleep, but he knows he is dreaming. There are flashes of colour like the world shaken up in a kaleidoscope and pinpricks of adrenaline smothered pain but mostly there is _warmth,_ gentle heat like sitting a comfortable distance from his Nan's hearth and hearing her tell stories of her fiery courtship.

His mum described it like that as well, her _touch_ , a wildfire in her bones that set her heart and soul ablaze but never scorched her skin.

His Nan told him that everyone in his mother's family has imprinted with an impression of heat, of fire. Dani feels a single flame wavering in his soul, one struggling to stay alight as he pokes at it.

Dani knows then that he has to wake up, because he must be dreaming this. He hasn't _touched_ anyone, so this is another fickle dream of what he _might_ long for in the deepest depths of his soul- somebody for him, someone who belongs to him even as every part of himself is theirs.

Clarity sets in on the cusp of wakefulness; the Sachsenring corner, the brake lever getting stuck, the _crash_ and Dani knows he must have blacked out somewhere because he isn't lying in a bed of gravel.

The warmth is still there- the weak, lonely flame that he can't bring himself to extinguish in his vulnerable state.

Dani opens his eyes and at once machines start beeping and blaring. He has an IV drip but no unmentionable tubes, thank God, so he can't have been here longer than a day.

The flame, the _warmth_ , it's still there. Dani has bigger worries than what his newest list of injuries amounts to.

"Who touched me when I was unconscious?"

He tries to shout at the first nurse who walks in, but what comes out of his throat is a croak at best.

"Water on the bedside table," she says quietly, watching like a hawk as Dani shifts over and pours himself a paper cup full of water with motor control skills intact.

This is not his first hospital rodeo; he knows the drill intimately.

Only after ascertaining his cognitive ability and steadiness of limb does she turn to the machines and make them quiet.

Dani drinks his water, and asks her again, more calmly, "Who touched me when I was unconsciousness?"

She just looks at him, uncomprehending. Dani is perhaps the least helpful person in the world at this point, because he does not want to elaborate and admit what has happened to him.

It should feel like a violation, an injury to his psyche while he couldn't fight back, but he knows that's not how the _touch_ works. It had to be somebody close to him, someone he already knows, because Dani has no love for strangers and would be incapable of bonding with medical staff he's never met before. But who could it have been? He thought he knew himself better than that, but what if it _is_ a complete stranger?

How could it be anybody else?

Either way, Dani needs less panic, and more information.

The nurse is still staring at him. Dani sighs and moves his wrist barely, drawing her gaze to the twitch. He can see the moment she gets it; light dawns in her eyes and she beams at him.

"Oh, I'll find out and make you a list, how exciting! But what about the gloves…” she trails off, fiddling with her own required medical issue gloves that are meant to prevent this sort of situation occurring. “Never mind, they must still be on duty, or of course they’d be here with you! You must be _so_ happy, does it feel magical?"

It is not the first inkling Dani's had that he views this situation a little differently than most, but it _is_ the most obvious.

-*-

Jorge opens his eyes and is nearly blinded by the razor sharp clarity of colour and shape that greets him. He quickly shuts them, then squints carefully through his eyelashes to check he hasn't just been left facing a sunset or anything like that.

No such luck, more's the pity. How long will it take him to get used to this?

His father always joked that after their _touch_ , his hearing sharpened to the extent that he could never drown out his wife's nagging. His mother would smile sweetly and say it was the only chance he had of hearing enough to keep her happy.

Jorge's parents were one of those couples who _touched_ as random strangers and decided to see where it could lead. By their own admission, they were lonely and looking for love, and neither one has looked anywhere else since their fateful meeting.

With them as his guide, Jorge has always been open to the idea of _if it's meant to be, it will be_ and _fortune favours the brave_ but right now he could kick himself because clearly Dani has been under his nose the entire time- just his type, Jorge had thought when he first saw the older man- and he'd never tried to make anything of it. He’d let one handshake dictate his actions and never thought to put any work into it.

Also, Dani had been an utter _prat_ for most of their earlier acquaintance, but Jorge’s man enough to admit that he was no angel of friendship, and he could have worked to mend bridges and _try_ earlier than now rather than ignoring the voice that insisted he was such a _pretty_ prat.

Chance has intervened instead. Jorge takes this to mean they are _very much meant to be_ and presses the button to summon a nurse. The sooner he is out of here, the quicker he can get an update on Dani's condition.

He hopes Dani is alright. He wonders if Dani has woken up yet, if he's noticed the very real, if accidental _touch_ and how it's manifested in him.

He blinks slowly, taking in the colours, so sharp and clear, that are now revealed to him. It’s like watching a 3D film in high-definition, but it’s real life. It’s _beautiful_ , this sight that Dani has unintentionally given him.

He can't wait to find out what Dani’s got from him in return.

-*-                                        

Dani studies the list intently, over and again, but no name stands out to him. There is nothing out of the ordinary there, no person he recognises and thinks- _that's it. That's the one._

All he has is the persistent warmth in his soul, a gentle reassurance trying to calm him down and lull him into security.

_Don’t panic_ , he hears with every gentle flicker. _I’m here for you, and you shouldn’t forget it. I’m here._ It’s not so much words as fleeting impressions, as routine and changeable as a candle’s flame.

He's winding himself into more and more of a state, and forcibly puts the paper down. He cradles his head in his hands, ignoring the aches, trying to _remember_.

He's pretty sure he was knocked unconscious when he hit the ground, but something- _anything_ must be there, surely? How can he _touch_ (be _touched_ by) someone and have no memory of the event?

It's like a sad romance story, but Dani is no tragic heroine searching desperately for his anonymous love. He needs to find this person, so they can _touch_ again and null the fledging bond between them.

A second _touch_ is sometimes all that is necessary, on those occasions when there is no third party involved. In times of stress, bonds have been formed that fall apart days later when the adrenaline is gone and two people realise that although they can be compatible in tense situations, the same cannot be said for day-to-day living. A mutual agreement to dissolve the bond and a _touch_ should do it, Dani thinks, because it's not like his mystery partner is waiting with bated breath to see if he is okay. Surely, someone who cared about him enough to start a bond would be here with him in the hospital?

It must have been the adrenaline of the crash: natural, if unprofessional worry on their part and Dani reaching out for anybody with his subconscious who could soothe him and reassure him it would all be okay.

( _Don’t panic. I’m here._

_Where?_ Dani refuses to articulate this reply. _I need you now._ )

He is searching for reasons that might not be the case, and can come up with very few.

( _Where are you?_ He asks the flame, wondering if this is the definition of insanity. _Who are you?_

The flame flickers playfully as he tries to control it, teasing his mental fingers, licking at them. _Can’t you see?_ is the impression he gets back.)

The list given to him by the nurse includes all of the ambulance and hospital staff on duty when he crashed. He is mostly certain it is not one of them; there is no _resonance_ in his soul as he mulls over the names on her list. This leaves staff from the track, so maybe there are commitments to the job this person can't get around?

Inspired, he checks the time and notes that there is indeed a live session at this moment. He locates the remote and switches on the TV in the corner of the room.

The race broadcaster is a pay-per-view channel, but Dani has no worries about affording it. It’s also in German, but he makes do.

It's qualifying, he notes. MotoGP qualifying, the session he should have been a part of. He's been in hospital twenty four hours already.

Considering the situation, Dani had no real expectations of competing this weekend, but it’s still a blow. Out of habit, he checks the timing screens to see how everybody is doing. Marc is top, of course, and the elder Espargaro is getting more from his open-class Yamaha than the devil would reasonably expect. Vale is in sixth, but then his qualifying never reflects his race pace.

Lorenzo hasn't set a time. Dani checks the screen again, but he can't find the Majorcan anywhere on the list.

The camera zooms in on Marc as he turns in at the top of the hill, the place Dani lost it yesterday. Like they can read his mind, the broadcaster switches to replays and Dani recognises his bike as it comes over the crest. He remembers the blinding panic, at least, in the moment he realised the brake was stuck and the bike jerked and bucked under him. What he didn't realise at the time was how close Jorge got to him, and he begrudgingly admires the impressive swerve the Yamaha manages around his debris.

He's not completely unaffected when he sees himself hit the ground, but he's glad he was unconscious by this point. His minor injuries ache in sympathy as he watches himself hit the ground at an angle, jarring his shoulder first then slamming his head into the tarmac.

_(I’m here.)_

_How didn't I break something?_ Dani wonders as he watches the crash. He turns the volume up despite language difficulties, realising that this is where the stewards come in and this replay might actually aid his quest for answers.

He watches in something approaching horror as _Jorge_ is the first one to reach his unconscious body, and wishes he could turn the TV off _now_.

_(Can’t you see?)_

In his soul, he knows what is about to happen (it _resonates_ ) and he is transfixed to the screen as Jorge stumbles to his knees, rips off his glove then Dani's with more care, and takes his wrist.

His pulse, Dani realises. Jorge must have noticed he wasn't moving.

Even though he expects it, it is a shock to see Jorge clasp their hands together, lace their fingers together and he knows this is when it happened.

Jorge Lorenzo _touched_ him when he was unconscious. Jorge Lorenzo lit the flame that is fluttering like mad within him, created this bond between them.

It had to be him, Dani sees with hindsight.

He knows himself well after all.

The replay switches angles, but it can only be moments later only because Jorge's hand is still bare. The Majorcan keeps curling his fingers and shaking them out. The picture is incriminating; he wonders if anyone has guessed what it actually means.

Then Dani gasps, and knows why Jorge set no time in qualifying. Jorge hits the ground like a puppet with its strings cut, sending even more stewards flocking to the track.

He finally makes his hand move and hits the power button. The television goes blank.

In contrast, Dani's mind is busier than ever.

_(Can you see me now? Yeah, you can.)_

The flame flickers like it’s laughing at him.

-*-

Jorge's attempts to get an update on Dani's condition are completely stonewalled by the hospital staff. He is neither family nor listed as ‘friend’, so they defend their refusals as legal protection. Jorge considers mentioning the new _touch_ , but remembers that Dani might not know about it at this point and probably wouldn’t back him up, even if it is the truth.

He is well and truly stuck, but it is no fault of the hospital’s, so he leaves and scuffs his feet on the pavement, thinking.

He could stake out the hospital until Dani is released, but that is uncomfortably close to stalking. Given the seriousness of the crash, he could be there for _days_. He scans the front of the building with his dramatically superior vision. It still hurts when he gets a reflection of sunlight off the windows, but he is adjusting slowly. He takes out his phone, but there is really nothing to be done; he has no way of contacting Dani other than face-to-face.

With a sigh, he contacts his crew chief instead.

Ramon picks up after the second ring.

“I’m out of hospital,” Jorge says in lieu of a greeting.

“Good,” Ramon replies. “I’ll let Lin know you’ll be back soon. You are coming back to the circuit?”

_There’s nothing seriously wrong with you?_ Jorge hears underneath the words.

“I’m fine.” Jorge pauses, because even, especially without Dani’s input on this, he has no idea how to explain what happened yesterday. His team need to know, but what can he tell them? The hospital staff diagnosed him with shock and fatigue, but Forcada knows him better than that and won’t accept the official report. “It’s complicated,” Jorge huffs a laugh; at least he’s honest.

Ramon sighs. “It was always going to be. Onto practical matters: you didn’t set a qualifying time, but we can start from the back of the grid if you’ve been signed off to race?”

Jorge blinks. He hasn’t even thought of racing. “The bike’s okay?”

“We are not going into that now,” Ramon says levelly. “We are going to have a nice, face-to-face chat about why riders do not deliberately drop their bikes and let the engines stall out, then whine afterwards because the mechanics don’t feel as sharp since it’s been hauled back to the garage and re-tuned.”

Jorge’s not looking forward to that discussion. “But there was no damage?” He checks. He can’t imagine there would be; it was a gentle drop, relatively speaking.

“You scratched up your faring.”

If Ramon’s bitching about cosmetics, it’s fine. The Majorcan relaxes minutely.

“I’ve been signed off to race,” he says slowly. “The doctors diagnosed fatigue, so if I take it easy this evening, and get checked out on-site tomorrow, there should be no problems there.”

“Bollocks. You’ll be fine.”                       

Jorge takes a deep breath, and starts with the tip of the iceberg. “I’m not sure I should, though.” The tip of the iceberg doesn’t explicitly start with Dani; the _tip_ of the iceberg is his vision, which even now is making his eyes tear up when a sharp reflection momentarily blinds him. How he’s going to live with it on track, he doesn’t yet know.

_“What_?”                               

“I said it’s complicated!”

“Complicated is ‘oh shit, I’m a bit nervous about what my crew chief’s going to do to me for not taking proper care of my bike’. _Complicated_ is ‘I need all of the data available on that particular corner because it’s the one I don’t like since I fell off there x number of years ago!’ Complicated is _not_ ‘I’m wussing out on my crew because the esteemed doctors are telling me I might be a little tired!’. You’ve got the summer break after Germany. You’ve got plenty of time to rest then.”

Jorge knows that if Ramon honestly thought there was a problem with his health, he wouldn’t be so disparaging. It’s not that his crew chief is a results-orientated bastard, he’s just… passionate. There’s a reason they get on so well, professionally speaking.

“ _Complicated_ is ‘I need to have a serious chat with my team manager because something’s happened and I’m not quite sure how to explain it, or how much I _should_ explain, considering the circumstances.’.”

There’s a small silence, then Ramon’s forcibly steady, slightly nervous voice. “What did you do, Jorge?”

Jorge has been hearing variations on this question for _years_. It has little effect on him now. “I need to talk to Zeelenberg. Maybe even Lin Jarvis.”

There’s a shorter silence before Ramon sighs heavily, tabling the conversation for now. “I’ll let them know. You good to get back to the track alone?”

Jorge nods, then confirms verbally. “Yeah, they’ve got taxis. I’ll be about half an hour, probably.”

“See you soon.”                         

“See you later.” He hangs up, and resists the urge to thump a brick wall.

He doesn’t need to be going back with a broken finger as well as a fledging bond and still-adjusting vision.

-*-

Dani forces his mind to shut up when the doctor comes in for his assessment. He doesn’t want to be here another night, and any sign of stress would be enough of a reason for them to refuse to release him. He _could_ release himself, but honestly, it’s more hassle than it’s worth.

Trackside medical staff tend to get tetchy when they read that in your records, like you’re disdaining their professional colleague’s opinions and common sense. It’s a good thing to keep trackside medics on your side, so considering Dani’s probably met one at every circuit at some point in his career (and knowing his luck, will do again yet), he tries not to antagonise them too much.

“Considering the scale of your crash, and your track record, Mr Pedrosa,” Dani rolls his eyes at the doctor’s barely-there smirk, and hopefully unintended pun, “You’ve been incredibly lucky. There’s nothing we’ve found that requires you to stay tonight, but you are _not_ signed off to race tomorrow. There was some unusual brain activity in your scans that we picked up on- nothing dangerous, nothing to worry about, but we have no reason for it and you’ll need to be re-scanned in two weeks to see if it’s settled on its own.”

Dani winces. He can’t help it.        

The doctor narrows his eyes. “Or you could be completely honest with our medical staff, and let us help you to the best of our not inconsiderable ability.” His eyes pick up on the nervous twitch Dani can’t conceal; his fingers curl up into a fist at his side. The man bites back a smile; it seems for once, the nurses’ gossip is correct. One of them _was_ running around asking all and sundry for the names of everybody involved in Mr Pedrosa’s case.

“It says in your medical file that you wear gloves, Mr Pedrosa. Is that correct?”

There is no censure in the doctor’s expression, but Dani shifts uncomfortably on the bed. “Yes,” he says, tilting his head back, daring the man to make an issue of it. It’s obvious why the doctor’s asking the question.

He should have asked for the nurse’s discretion. He didn’t want this to be an issue.

“I don’t judge, Mr Pedrosa; I can’t, in my position,” the doctor says sternly, lifting his own hand and highlighting the blue, medical-issue plastic gloves that are required by law to prevent unethical patient-professional bonds forming.

“Why is it in my medical file?” Dani didn’t know that it was in his medical file.

“It’s under the mental health section. That includes habits and patterns of behaviour medical staff need to be aware of.”

This makes sense, so Dani drops that line of conversation. “My gloves are probably still in the garage; nobody picked them up for me. This isn’t a mental health issue, doctor.”

Somebody from his team _has_ been by; there is a pile of his clothes on the visitor’s chair. Dani is grateful he doesn’t have to leave the hospital in leathers, to say the least.

But the Good Samaritan loses points for not picking up his gloves. He thought _everybody_ at Honda knew of his quirk, by now.

“This isn’t a mental health issue, I agree. From your reaction, your scans, and the inevitable gossip, I would instead assume the rumours are correct? You have formed a bond, yes?” The man’s words are frank, leaving Dani no room to deflect or wiggle out of an answer.

“Somebody formed a bond with me,” Dani agrees and corrects him at the same time.

The man gives him a look that so clearly says, _Is that really the point?_ , Dani fights the urge to shrink into the covers.

“Have you worked out with _whom_?” Professional neutrality or not, there is a thread of impatience tainting the doctor’s voice.

Dani raises an eyebrow. “Is that any of your business, doctor?”

Thankfully (or there would have been _words_ that meant Dani would never be free of this hospital) the man doesn’t dispute this. “No, outside of the aforementioned mental health records. For somebody who wears gloves to form a bond is unusual- obviously, considering the physical barrier- but accidents happen. It can be quite distressing to the people involved, and before I sign you off I need to know that you won’t do anything stupid while searching for information, or with said information once you find it.”

“I have that information,” Dani admits, “But I won’t be stupid about it. It’s probably a spur of the moment thing; we’ll _touch_ again and dissolve it. No further problems.”

The doctor doesn’t look confident in Dani’s assessment, but this is not his bond, or even his field. He can only make a suggestion in the medical notes, and hope.

He isn’t allowed to judge, and he might have to wear gloves for professional reasons, but he just _doesn’t understand_ the people who wear them out of choice. Who wouldn’t want to know if there’s somebody out there capable of being the other half of their soul, their _soul mate_ as romantics call it?

“Then we’re done here,” the doctor allows, finally adding his signature to the bottom of the sheet. He gives it to Dani with instructions. “Hand this in to the nurse on reception; she’ll give you a copy for your team’s records.”

He has to put this last bit in, too.

“Off the record, Mr Pedrosa?”

Dani freezes, but nods.

“Don’t be an idiot about it. Unconsciously formed bonds are rare, but they have so much more potential than most people realise. Don’t ask to dissolve it unless you’re absolutely _certain_ you don’t want it.”

His internal flame flares, bright and hot inside him like he’s been dosed with magnesium. Dani smiles ruefully, taking no offence at the man’s honest opnion.

Everybody’s entitled to an opinion. He just doesn’t plan to listen to it.

“Thanks, doctor. But- this person and me, we’ve never been particularly close.” He decides to be as frank as the other man. “I wear gloves because honestly, I wasn’t sure how my psionics would react to his, and now I have my answer. Curiosity settled. But we’re civil at best, even now, so I can’t imagine _he’ll_ want to keep this bond between us. It’ll be dissolved; that’s the point of psi, isn’t it?”

There’s no reaction to the pronoun; same-sex bonds are an increasing trend of recent decades, and even religious fanatics can’t deny the psionics without devaluing everything they’ve previously held dear.

Dani isn’t even taking into account his own feelings on the matter, but they would see it annulled in their own right, surely?

(He can’t work out _what_ his own feelings on the matter actually are.

_I need you now._ He ruthlessly stifles the thought.)

He’s only going on the fact that this is _Jorge_ , and civility aside, there is no love lost between them. Jorge isn’t going to want this.

It’s what he imagined, after all. Jorge was worried about him in the heat of the moment, and Dani was seeking reassurance. That’s a natural enough reaction.

The flame dims. Dani ignores the sudden cold, and fights the urge to shiver. The temperature in the room hasn’t changed, he sternly reminds himself.

Even as the doctor nods to his reasoning, Dani has one last thought. It isn’t really addressed to the other man, more just wondering aloud.

“And if we _touch_ again, and it isn’t…isn’t dissolved… I can’t speak for him, but I guess I don’t know _myself_ as well as I think I do.” He looks to the ceiling, but there are no answers waiting for him there. “It’s a whole new set of questions to answer.”

He needs to talk to Jorge.

-*-                                                                 

Jorge fidgets in his seat. Wilco Zeelenberg, Yamaha’s team manager, stares him down.

“What is complicated, Jorge? Why are you uncertain about racing tomorrow?”

They are sitting two metres apart. Jorge decides actions are better than words, and recites the ID number on the man’s permit pass.

The pass is clipped to Wilco’s belt; it is an awkward angle, and the typeset is _tiny_.

He doesn’t miss a digit.                     

Wilco is obviously confused.

“It’s your pass number,” Jorge waves a careless hand. “And no, I didn’t memorise it. I read it.”

“Jorge-”                               

“My eyesight has dramatically improved over the last twenty-four hours. I’m adjusting, but sudden lights and blocks of colour are pretty distracting to me, so I don’t think racing is the safest idea.”

“What _happened_?”                      

It’s marginally better than ‘what did you do?’ so Jorge gives the man a straight(ish) answer. “I bonded. The manifestation- it’s my vision. I have clarity and depth that goes _way_ beyond 20/20; it’s closer to 20/10 or even lower.” Jorge wasn’t idle in the taxi; he did his research. “I need to adjust to this normally before I would feel comfortable risking myself and others in a race scenario.”

Zeelenberg puts his fingers to his temples. “You _bonded_? When? With _who_?”

“It wasn’t intentional!” Jorge protests, before realising that probably made it _worse_ in Wilco’s eyes.

“It must have been one of the hospital staff,” Wilco muses, eyeing his rider for any sign of confirmation.

Jorge sets his jaw. “I’m not saying who until I know how they feel about it. I won’t be swayed on this.”

“That’s not the best attitude to have with your manager,” Wilco chides him. It’s not firm enough to be a warning; Jorge and Yamaha have an amicable relationship and a good track record.

Then the words register. “You haven’t spoken to them about it? It’s been twenty-four hours, how can you _not_ have spoken about it?”

Jorge hastily re-directs the conversation before Conclusions can be reached. “I was in hospital, remember? Not the best time for talking.”

It seems to work, because Wilco sighs and tries to ignore his blossoming headache. “Fine. We won’t race you tomorrow. You have until testing to get this sorted out, or I will insist on proper answers and deal with the person directly.”

_That_ , Jorge both desperately wants to see, and avoid. The look on Dani’s face-

“And to think, you used to be so reckless,” Wilco faux sighs. Anything to wipe the stupid grin he doesn’t think Jorge knows he’s sporting from the rider’s face.

It doesn’t work. “I’ve grown as a person, apparently,” Jorge retorts, still grinning, because it is the only reason he can think of as to why he and Dani would _touch_ now, after so many years in the same field.

They’re finally right for each other. It has a nice ring to it.

Wilco shakes his head. “Just get out,” he mutters. Jorge mock salutes him, and leaves the cubbyhole masquerading as an office.

He doesn’t know who Jorge has bonded with; he doesn’t honestly care. But Jorge’s shiftiness over the matter (don’t think he didn’t notice that deflection) is sending up red flags that an epic shitstorm is about to be unleashed.

His job, as it were, is to prepare for it, and weather it for the team.

He foresees many more headaches in his future.

-*-                                                

Dani gets back to the circuit with one goal: talk to Jorge. There’s a warmth in his mind as he focuses on this task, that _man_ ; he can’t wholly ignore it.

He makes one pit stop to collect his (now worthless) gloves, and tell his team that he’s okay, yes, but the doctor has not signed him off for the race tomorrow.

Marc is looking far too curiously at his hands. Self-consciously, he shoves them into the gloves, to forestall any questions about why he’s no longer wearing them. They might be friends, but he wouldn’t take _that_ line of enquiry from his own mother.

Plan. Jorge.                                

He says his goodbyes, wishes Marc luck for tomorrow, and goes hunting.            

How he’s going to accomplish this plan, he has no idea. Lurking around the Yamaha motorhomes is sure to stir curious tongues.

Shit, is Jorge even out of hospital?

Shit, he’s assuming due to the fainting episode, but was Jorge even _in_ hospital? He has no clue as to what actually happened to the Yamaha rider, too caught up in his own worries.

The flame stutters in time with his stumbling thoughts. Why hasn’t he considered this already? He doesn’t know _why_ Jorge fainted, if he’s alright, if he’s back at the circuit or if he even left it!

As it turns out, luck is on his side, silencing what is becoming all-too-familiar panic. The man in question is walking between caravans with his head bowed.

He looks deep in thought.                       

Dani’s flame _burns_ at the sight, but like his mother always said, it doesn’t hurt.

( _Come out and play. See me!_

Dani’s never been one to play with fire. He hates getting burned.)

It does, however, make him gasp and clutch a hand over his heart, where the heat is centred. The gesture catches Jorge’s attention, or maybe the noise does. Either way, the Yamaha rider is staring at him like he’s something straight out of a fairy tale. He strides over and goes to put his hands on Dani’s shoulders.

Unthinkingly, Dani flinches away.

Jorge reels like he’s been struck. “Dani?” He asks, a wealth of questions in his voice.

This isn’t straightforward. This isn’t what Dani assumed it would be; what he told the doctor it would be. Jorge looks hurt- like- _does he_ want _this?_

Dani hasn’t factored that in to any of his thoughts. One half of a bond can’t stand: if only one person wants it, it won’t work. It’s harsh on the one side, he admits, but it’s true. His feelings on the matter will decide this, after all.

(But his _confusion_ \- if Jorge wants this, can Dani..? Can he let his curiosity reign, let his human side out and learn whether he’s been that harsh in judging Jorge for all these years?)

Is a second touch actually going to work, here? He has to steel his heart and regain control. The larger part of himself _will_ work this out.

The Majorcan collects himself admirably in the face of Dani’s rejection. “You know, then.”

Dani swallows and nods at the blue motorhomes behind them. “We need to talk, privately.”

Jorge’s laugh is slightly bitter. “This isn’t going to be fun, is it?” He turns on his heel and walks away, not checking if Dani’s following him.

It’d be a pointless gesture, after all. Dani’s got his own wealth of questions that need answers, and Jorge’s the only one who can give them to him.

-*-

Dani flinched. He _flinched_.           

He’d noticed a movement in the corner of his eye, and his current magpie-like attention span had demanded he look to see what it was.

He’d seen Dani standing there, one hand on his heart, bruises clearly visible on his forehead and arms from the impact. With Jorge’s enhanced sight he could pick out more patches of discolour underneath the white team shirt he was wearing- incredibly subtle spots that were more shadowed than his skin’s natural hue beneath the bright white cotton. It’s not x-ray vision, but it’s incredibly sensitive.

Jorge can see Dani in exquisite detail. Bruises cannot hoodwink his eyes: the man is stunning. He can’t _not_ walk over to him, explanations ready in his mouth only behind questions if he was alright.

He reached out- and Dani _flinched_.

Jorge freezes. Dani knows, then- he must know, for that kind of reaction- but-

-he wants no part in it. Not consciously. The only part of him reaching out was the _human_ that everybody has, the part sociopaths tear out and furiously independent people deny; the part that longs for contact.

And Jorge was the unlucky bastard close enough for him to latch on to. It’s a bitter truth to realise, when he’s been thinking about how there might have been something there for a while (Dani’s _just_ his type; is Jorge not his? Is it really all in his head?), and maybe how they’re just coming into it, just now ready for it.

He knows where this is going to go now, and it’s not some place he wants to travel to. “Dani…” he doesn’t know what he wants to ask. There’s too many questions he wants to ask.

_Why are you_ still _such a prat?_ should not be chief among them.

“We need to talk, privately,” the Honda rider says, and Jorge smiles bitterly. It’s like that then, definitely.

He states the obvious just to get a reaction. “This isn’t going to be fun, is it?”

He’s disappointed. Dani’s avoiding his eyes.

He spins on his heel and makes for the motorhome. Dani shuts the door gently behind them, but Jorge wishes he’d slammed it. He’s angry at Dani, at the situation, at himself for being such a foolish romantic.

_This isn’t Romeo and Juliet. Rivals don’t become bonded in real life._

“So this is where you say, oops, my mistake?” He’s scathing as he turns back to the smaller rider.

Dani doesn’t flinch in privacy. He stands straighter. “Not quite. What were _you_ playing at?”

“I’m sorry, did I worry about you?” Is Dani seriously trying to pin this on him? “You reached back; we’re equally responsible for this.”

“I was _unconscious_ ,” Dani stresses the last word. “How much control do you really think I had?”

Jorge sees his hand twitch ever so slightly with his last question. It’s subtle, it’s telling, and Jorge’s angry enough to be a bastard. “Better question, Dani: how much control do you use consciously to lock up everything human about you on a day-to-day basis? And when that fails-” he grabs Dani’s hand, and checks more closely than he’s ever bothered to look before.

His skin meets fabric. Incredibly subtle, skin-matched fabric that can only be a custom job, it’s _so_ life-like.            

He throws the hand back as though burned. “You coward.” How has he never seen them before?

Dani flushes. “It’s _my_ choice! This,” he waves that hand between them, “Wasn’t!”

“That’s not the way psionics work, Dani, and you know it.”

Jorge’s been waiting his whole life for somebody to resonate with him, and he gets Dani Pedrosa. How much karma is he paying off?

But he _wants_ , even now. Jorge probably is _too_ much of a romantic, because he whole-heartedly believes in psionics and _touches_ despite the evidence in front of him.

Dani’s searching for an answer that isn’t a petulant denial. Jorge’s tired of this, anger suddenly drained, and holds out his hand.

“Fine. End it, then.”                

The Honda rider visibly startles. “You want to?”

Jorge avoids the question. “You do. That’s enough, remember?”

Slowly, Dani takes off his glove. He’s staring at Jorge’s hand like he expects the Majorcan to retract it at any second.

Their fingers meet, then their palms. Just to be sure, Dani laces his fingers through Jorge’s, and-

Nothing.     

_Nothing_? _What_?

“What?” Dani whispers shakily.

Jorge’s eyes go wide. “I can still see you,” he whispers.

_I see you_ , Dani’s flame taunts him. _Can you see me?_

“You’re conscious!” Jorge spits out. “Sort out your fucking mind, Dani! Do you want this or not, because your mouth says one thing, but your psionics,” he lifts their hands, still laced together, “Say something else entirely!”

“I-” Dani wets his lips, “It was meant to…”

He stares at Jorge, and fails to say anything else.

-*-                      

The flame is still there. If anything, it’s stronger, brighter. And it _hurts_. It _burns_.

“I wanted-” he manages, but Jorge drops his hand again like he’s scorched from the contact. Dani hurriedly pulls the glove back on; it makes him less vulnerable.

“You don’t know what you want,” the Majorcan cuts in. Then he sneers. “At least, not _consciously_. What is it, do you dream about me? Do you cry into your pillow for wanting me every morning before locking it all up inside?”

Dani narrows his eyes. “That was uncalled for.”

“It was?” Jorge rolls his. “I was standing there waiting to be rejected; can’t I crow a little over the fact that you _do_ actually want me?”

“Too,” Dani points out, trying to re-establish equal footing. “Want you _too_.”

Jorge claps a hand over his mouth, just for the effect. “Is that an admission of _guilt_ , Dani? Because it can’t be a shock, given how I approached you.” Because Jorge has little control over his emotions, he spitefully adds, “You _flinched._ Did you really think I was going to hurt you?”

“I don’t know why I flinched,” Dani says quietly. “I didn’t think you _could_ hurt me, not over this.” He isn’t talking about physical wounds, and they both know it.

Jorge’s mouth shuts with a _click_.

“I didn’t know anything, apparently,” Dani adds, and it seems as good a line as any to leave this conversation on. He moves to the door.

(He _burns_.

_Coward_.)

The action restores Jorge’s voice. “You _cannot_ seriously be thinking of leaving like this.”

“I need to think,” Dani bites out. “Us shouting at each other isn’t going to solve anything!” But he’s the one shouting, and he had little pride left already after the second _touch_ , but this strips the shreds away from him. “ _This_ doesn’t change anything! It doesn’t let you control me, and it doesn’t mean you can stop me walking away when and if I choose!”

“This,” Jorge snaps, “Isn’t a problem to be solved, Dani.” He leans in close. “And if you really wanted to walk away, it wouldn’t still exist.”

_Dani_ snaps this time. There’s an undercurrent in Jorge’s voice; he doesn’t know if it represents romance or violence, but _passion_ is there in spades.

The fire isn’t just in him; it’s between them now, sparking at the edges.

He shoves Jorge back; the Majorcan catches his balance quickly. Dani’s already in his face, and before his thoughts can stop him, he’s reaching up and reaching _out_ and crushing their lips together.

Jorge _bites_ , and it's _brilliant_.

Jorge pulls back, not releasing Dani’s lip until the last moment. “This is going one of two ways,” he mutters. “I’m either physically kicking you out _now_ , or-”

Dani swipes his legs out from under him, straddling Jorge where he falls. “We can compare bruises in the morning,” he completes the ultimatum as Jorge gets his breath back from being winded.

Maybe that undercurrent was romance _and_ violence.

Jorge reaches up under Dani’s shirt and _rakes_ his nails down his back. “Just bruises? You soft touch.”

(Or just violence. Dani’s finding it difficult to care whatever way.)            

Dani can feel blood welling in the shallow cuts. He bites Jorge’s collarbone, hard enough to leave a livid mark and imprint of teeth, just shy of breaking the skin. Jorge arches into the pain.

“You _would_ make this into a competition,” he mutters against Jorge’s skin.

In one lithe, sinuous movement, Jorge shifts his hips, dislodging Dani and following him over so he’s looming over the shorter man. “Less talking.” He grabs the hem of his shirt and pulls it over his head, revealing a hairless torso and muscles bunched at the shoulders as he throws the garment to places unseen. “More stripping,” he concludes with a wicked smirk.

Dani reaches up and traces the outline of those muscles. He trails his hands over deltoids, triceps, curving round to squeeze at biceps then down, over forearms until his hands are resting on Jorge’s.

His still-gloved hands. Jorge’s eyes meet his, then he looks down. “These have to go.”

He raises Dani’s hands one at a time and bites at the tip of each middle finger, then the others, moving outwards and pulling the gloves off _with his teeth_.

He doesn’t apologise when he catches skin. Dani’s so lit up from desire and _heat_ and the stinging pain from his back against his shirt and the floor, he doesn’t care.

Jorge drops the gloves in his lap, throwing down the gauntlet as it were. His eyes glitter with the challenge.

Dani sits up so they’re face to face. Like Jorge, he grabs the hem of his shirt and pulls it _slowly_ over his head. He picks up his gloves and balls the items up together, then throws the bundle to the side.

He places his bare hands on Jorge’s hips, and feels naked already despite still wearing jeans.

“Better,” Jorge murmurs, leaning in for a kiss.

This is getting too tender. Dani digs his nails in and _scratches_.

Jorge gasps as their mouths meet; Dani steals the air left in his lungs until he has to break away as dizziness threatens his vision.

“Don’t you dare be gentle,” Dani threatens (and begs) him. “Don’t you _dare_.”

“Bite me,” Jorge replies, but he isn’t laughing.

Dani follows _this_ order without argument.

(He _burns_ , but it's alright. Jorge's burning, too.)

-*-                                          

They wake up near simultaneously. Jorge groans, cataloguing the hurts their night has left him with.

“I think you broke my hip,” he croaks out, voice hoarse. The joint in question is marred with scores and a handful of light bruises that will bloom beautifully in the coming days.

Dani’s voice is no better. “I think you broke my _mind_ ,” he whispers, cradling his head around the painful spots.

They’re still on the floor. The table was turned over when Jorge threw Dani against it. A chair lists drunkenly to one side, leg cracked, unable to withstand the weight of two men moving on it.

Jorge takes this in with wide, highly focussed eyes. “You trashed my motorhome,” he says dazedly.

Dani elbows him in the side. If there’s another bruise, Jorge isn’t going to notice. “I thought the _one_ thing we did figure out was that neither of us alone is to blame for this.”

“But you still think of it as something that needs blame.”

“Stop picking an argument; it’s too early.”

“Stop saying stupid things, then.”

Dani sighs, and decides to bring the maturity to their conversation alone. “This-”

“-changes everything. You _can’t_ deny that.”

“Would you let me speak?”

Jorge shrugs, and Dani doesn’t have to look to know the bastard is grinning. “Depends on how stupid whatever you say’s going to be.”

“Jorge-”                       

“Look.” Jorge fights through the lingering pain and rolls over, trapping Dani against the floor. “We’re bonded. And I get it; you aren’t ecstatic. You’ve already made that clear. But for some reason, you can’t let go. You don’t _want_ to let go. So you’re stuck with me.” He lessens his body weight on the shorter rider, letting Dani sit up. “Until you get your head in gear and work out what you actually want, _this_ is what you get.”

Dani gives up on getting a word in edgeways and steals a short, undeniably sweet kiss from Jorge’s lips.

Jorge blinks. And _now_ he’s quiet. Probably with surprise.            

Dani smirks. “You say that like it’s a problem that needs solving.”

Jorge’s gaze keeps flicking between that smirk, and those laughing eyes. “You- what?”

“Maybe I think too much. Maybe it isn’t that complicated. Maybe,” Dani shakes his head, “No, _definitely_ , if I didn’t want this, that would have been the end of it last night, and I would have walked away free, unbound.” He raises an eyebrow. “You _do_ know how psionics work, right?”

(‘Breaking his mind’ was not any kind of exaggeration or euphemism. It feels like he sloughed off an old skin, had every metaphorical door in his head broken as Jorge enthusiastically kicked them open and hid the tools he’d need to fix them with a cheeky wink.

It feels like freedom, not confinement. Nothing, he’s beginning to realise, can contain fire, and Dani’s got the burns to prove it. They ache so _sweetly_.

Why was he so afraid of burning?)

Jorge is suspended between incredulity and disbelief. “I’m not going to take a lecture on that subject from _you_.”

“I probably deserve that.” Dani shrugs at the fair comment.

“You _definitely_ deserve that.” Jorge steals his own kiss. “Maybe you can admit you’ve been an idiot for ages now because we could have been doing this _years_ ago.”

Dani pokes him. “I _don’t_ deserve that. We might not have _touched_ years ago.” He stops, eyes glazing over as he remembers one pertinent fact.

He slumps forward to rest his forehead on Jorge's shoulder. "Okay, I probably deserve that, too."

" _Really_?" The sarcasm doesn't hide Jorge's curiosity, so Dani elaborates.

"I only started wearing gloves again two seasons ago. Why do you think that was, you bastard?"

Jorge gets it and grins broadly. It's a smug, satisfied grin.

"I _knew_ it wasn't all in my head."

"You're in mine, you realise?" Dani's aware they haven't actually talked about this yet; everything to do with this bond is out of order. "Well, sort of. It's impressions of you."

Jorge's lost track of this conversation somewhere. "I'm what?"

"In my head. I get impressions- okay," Dani knows he’s explaining this _horribly_. "The _touch_ \- my family's got this thing about bonds and fire; you manifested as a flame in me. It's warm, it's comforting, but it's also wild and burning. It hurts." He shrugs away Jorge's concern, "And maybe it's what I need. It helps me, teases me and scorches me in turn, so it seems- it's like having some part of you in my head. Do you see?"

_(Can you see me now?)_

Jorge takes this idea in gradually. "My manifestation's much simpler," he explains in return. "Yes, I see." He smirks at Dani's _perfect_ choice of words. "I see with such clarity and colour it overloaded me when it started. I'm still adjusting, now."

"That's why you fainted," Dani realises. "I couldn't work it out, before."

"Exactly."                                  

"Huh."                                           

“Speaking of,” Jorge remembers, “The crash. You okay?”

(He feels like a bit of a twat asking this after everything last night, but it’s the thought that counts. He can see marks he didn’t leave on Dani’s body, and it’s not a sight he cares for.)

“Oh, yeah, that,” Dani replies breezily. “All fine.” His humour breaks under the weight of Jorge’s scowl. “I think you did me more damage last night than that crash did, amazingly enough.”

“I suppose you had to get lucky eventually,” Jorge snarks, fighting a grin at the unintended subtext. “You’re going to shoot me down every time I act like I care, aren’t you?”

“I’m going to shoot you down when you ask me what we both know is a stupid question.”

“Let me rephrase that: please, forgive me for caring!”

Dani is shooting _himself_ in the foot here, he knows. But he has to ask. “Do you? Would you, if it weren’t for the _touch_?”

He’s thankful Jorge doesn’t try for the immediate, obvious reply. The Majorcan takes his time over answering; the silence stretches out between them.

“I do,” is the easiest part to say. “And I would, even if we hadn’t _touched_. There’s always a bit of a stir when any of us gets thrown off like that. But honestly, I don’t know whether I’d’ve cared enough to ask in person if we hadn’t _touched_ when we did.”

Dani mulls over the answer. “So you’ve changed your whole worldview in twenty-four hours because of this?”

“Literally,” Jorge quips, because _how can he not_? He sobers up quickly. “But- yes, I have. It’s different now; I’m not going to pretend it’s not, and I’ll hit you if _you_ try to pretend otherwise.” He means it. Bonded or not, he’s still a bit of a bastard, and he’s coming to see Dani is still a bit of a prat.

Newly-opened mind or not, Dani’s having trouble comprehending this. “You completely believe in psionics, don’t you? Soul mates, even?”

“You don’t?” Jorge’s always seen it as a fact of life, not something he could _choose_ to believe in or not.

“I thought,” Dani gathers his musings on the topic, wondering if _this_ shouldn’t have been the conversation they had last night, instead of fighting and jumping into things head (and tooth, and nail) first, “I see it as a conscious decision- you _choose_ to find someone, to stay with someone, to,” he swallows heavily, “To love someone. It’s not all there from the start, just waiting to be discovered.” He laughs self-deprecatingly, “I suppose I never gave them much credit- I saw them as a confirmation of what somebody’s already feeling, rather than something to spark that feeling in the first place.”

“This isn’t love,” Jorge replies immediately, and it shouldn’t sting, should be a relief, but there’s the smallest _twinge_ in Dani’s chest.

(He’s more human now than he’s let himself be in _years_.)

“This is potential. That’s all. They’re telling us there _could_ be love, could be so much here to _discover_ ,” Jorge uses the same word, trying to make Dani see their points aren’t as far apart as he seems to think, “If we choose to work for it.” Then he hits the nail on the head. “You and your fucking subconscious, Dani. If you _didn’t_ believe in it, you wouldn’t have worn your gloves. If you thought them second to your personal feelings on the matter, the gloves shouldn’t have been necessary.”

And Dani thinks he understands what Jorge’s getting at. The differing opinions aren’t so much between Jorge and himself- they’re between his conscious decisions, and his subconscious, _human_ feelings.

Dani turns onto his side, because Jorge deserves to hear this face-to-face as much as he deserved their banter earlier. “But they _were_ necessary,” he says shortly, pointedly. He takes Jorge’s hand in his and squeezes, the action gentler than any touch between them last night.

_(I’m beginning to see._

_I see you now.)_

Jorge scores his second smug, satisfied smile of the morning. “I don’t know whether I want to kiss you, or punch you right now,” he jokes.

(He’s mostly joking.

Partially, at least.)                                

“That’s going to be a fairly frequent problem for us,” Dani predicts.

“Any complaints?”                   

Dani lifts their hands. “You have to ask?”

Jorge shrugs. “I wanted to clarify. I’m a bit sick of us not being on the same page.”

Dani considers this, and nods. “Yeah, that’s probably for the best.”

The conversation trails off, each thinking about what they've revealed.

Jorge doesn't want this to become awkward.

(They’ve had this entire conversation naked on his floor, and it’s only _now_ he sees the potential for awkwardness. Dani can say what he likes, but some part of him feels the exactly the same way Jorge does.)

"On a less serious note," he bats his eyelashes and stretches. "Some unfeeling bastard left all these marks on my back that are going to be horrible to wash."

Dani snorts. "Are you really asking me to get your back for you?"

Jorge keeps his tone utterly innocent as he stands up. "I'll scratch your back if you scratch mine?"

"I think that's worse than 'bite me'." But Dani's holding out a hand.

Jorge grins and tugs him to his feet. "You weren’t complaining about that one at the time."

"I was justifiably distracted," Dani mutters, eyes tracing the lines (and proudly, the _marks_ ) of Jorge's torso. He's momentarily jealous of the vision Jorge gained, wishes he could see his lover (his _bonded_ ) with such superior sight.

His flame flickers. He knows that counts as laughter, now.

Jorge snorts. "If you think this isn't going to be that sort of shower, I was far too subtle."

Dani rolls his eyes. "I can tell when you're laughing at me, remember?"

"... It's not like I'm hiding it. I really _can't_ be subtle with you, can I?"

"Who asked who for a favour here?"

"I was thinking more along the lines of 'mutual exchange'."

Dani smiles as Jorge pulls him into the bathroom. His shower cubicle is _tiny_ ; this is going to be hilarious. "I can live with that."

“Good. Because you weren’t getting all this,” Jorge steps back into the water and poses _,_ displaying himself ridiculously, “For free.”

Dani steps in and he’s right; they’re pressed chest to chest for lack of room. He licks at a bead of water tracing its way down Jorge’s neck. “I know,” he presses the words into the skin with a kiss. “I’m going to be paying for this for years, right?”

Any reply Jorge might have made is lost in a heated kiss.

-*-

“Try ‘the rest of your life’ and you might be getting somewhere.” Freshly showered, shagged, and showered again, they’re standing by the counter, sipping coffee.

Dani drags his attention away from his mug. “Where? What?”

“Hey, you asked. But I wasn’t exactly capable of forming answers before, was I?” There’s a daring undertone in Jorge’s voice, something whispering _take the bait, Dani_.

Dani is not doing this. “We are not having pathetic arguments to justify rough, angry make-up sex.” He cocks his head. “What did I ask..? _Oh_.”

Jorge spots the minute tremors in Dani’s muscles as sudden tension takes a hold of him. Jorge rescues the mug before the shorter man can drop it. “Oi. You don’t get to panic over something I’ve said until I haven’t got the vision anymore to spot you panicking.”

Maybe it’s the tone, maybe it’s the words themselves. But the tension eases away; Jorge sees muscle after muscle slacken as Dani rests against the work surface. “You really think of this as a lifetime thing?” He says shakily.

“I’m not proposing to you; _stop_ worrying.” Jorge lifts one shoulder in a careless shrug. “But I want to reach the fullest potential this is promising. _That_ could be a lifetime thing. If you want to break it at any point, well.” Jorge waves his fingers in the other man’s face. “You know what to do.”

Dani grabs those wiggling fingers.

Nothing. It makes him smile, this time.

“That’s how it’s meant to work, right?” He doesn’t need to suppress any doubts; they’re getting to the same page.

(Alright, so he jumped in at the middle while Jorge’s been reading from chapter one, but they’re in the same place _now_. That’s the important thing.)

Jorge widens his eyes. “I think you’re finally beginning to get it!”

Dani digs his elbow into Jorge’s side as he reclaims his coffee.

They understand each other, now.

-*-

Like the good team mate he apparently now is to Vale, Jorge waits until after the race and the Italian’s second place celebrations to drag Wilco Zeelenberg aside for a little chat.

Wilco takes one look at his face, and wishes it were possible to take painkillers with alcohol.

“You spoke to them?” He doesn’t really need the answer.

Jorge gives him that and more with two words and a wide grin.

“Dani Pedrosa.”                                 

To his credit, Wilco doesn’t whimper, though he _dearly_ wants to. “So, complicated is-”

“Accidentally bonding to the biggest, most independent I’m-wearing-gloves-when-I-shouldn’t-be prat of the paddock, who happens to ride for my team’s closest rivals?” Jorge winks. “Yup, pretty much.”

“That’s not exactly flattering,” Wilco manages, because Jorge said they talked? And he’s describing Pedrosa like that?

“It’s sweet nothings compared to how I bet he’s describing me,” Jorge replies.

(Damn him, he’s _smirking_.)

-*-                                                              

There’s not actually a lot of talking going on in the Honda garage. When Dani arrived, the team was in the middle of packing up and celebrating their perfect record going into the summer as they did so.

He catches a mechanic by the arm. “I need to talk to Livio,” he says.

The mechanic stares at him, at his bare hand on their arm. Dani sighs, because it was always going to come out, but-

“Yes, about that.”

“I’ll get him,” the mechanic quickly agrees.

Mere minutes later, Dani’s being herded into the back, where it’s quieter.

And there’s not a lot of talking going on to break the quiet.

(Dani thinks the entire team must be listening in on this, because the outer garage is suspiciously silent.)

“You bonded?” Livio asks _again_.

Dani nods, slightly sheepishly.

“With Lorenzo.”                             

He nods again.                       

“ _Jorge_ Lorenzo?” It’s a forlorn hope, but Livio has to check. Again.

The look on the team manager’s face is a mixture of horror, fascination, morbid curiosity and the smallest part of happiness for his rider.

“But the gloves-”

“It was an accidental _touch_. Bastard took them off to check my pulse after the crash.” Dani explains for what feels like the fifth time.

“And it _took_?”                 

“Once-in-a-lifetime miracle,” Dani says glibly.

“I bet,” Livio mutters. Then he sighs. “Jorge Lorenzo.”

They’ve been here before.

-*-

Jorge spots him first (of course he does) and strides up, slinging an arm around Dani’s shoulders.

The people nearest to them stop and stare.

The Majorcan ignores this, and says loudly enough for them all to hear, “So we trashed my motorhome last night. Your place, then?”

Dani stops walking. “I don’t know whether to kiss you, or hit you,” he says, equally loud.

All background noise is silenced. The normally bustling paddock is quiet as the grave.

(This is becoming a disturbing trend. It’ll stop shortly, Dani hopes, when he and Jorge aren’t such a strange sight together.

Or when something stranger reveals itself instead. That’s probably more likely.

Dani starts praying.)

“The usual dilemma.” Jorge takes Dani’s bare hand just in case the onlookers haven’t put all the pieces together yet. They grin at each other.

Dani _burns_.


End file.
